I’m hungry.
My stomache tugs at
an old fetus, belly up,
a stutter in a hot month.
I think, I would paint her
like a spring egg,
or sculpt her like a chess game
where she could be queen
and cut off the eyelids of liars,
like I.
I would give her my hands to do with
all the weapons
and my tongue to speak with
all the words
she would know that she is not a pink
fluff laying on a pillow,
she is a sharp dagger,
a soft poison,
a prowess taking life by God’s
mighty light,
she would know
if she was not an old thought,
if she was not a small white stutter
stabbed out of the clutches
of my womb
she would know.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 